


Mentor

by Chaostructure



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-09
Updated: 2021-02-28
Packaged: 2021-03-13 02:35:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,192
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28646127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chaostructure/pseuds/Chaostructure
Summary: After McCree loses his arm, Genji helps him learn how to do everyday tasks one-handed.
Kudos: 9





	1. Chapter One

The uncomfortably stiff infirmary mattress, the IV tubing and blood pressure cuff attached to him, and the incessant beeping from one of those damn machines compounded the intense pain that was preventing the young Blackwatch mercenary from getting to sleep. He glanced at the clock on his bedside table-- it was a little after two in the morning. He’d made it through an hour and a half of fitful sleep this time, constantly aware of his surroundings, incorporating the searing pain in his arm into his dreams… turning them into nightmares.

He looked up at the ceiling and groaned quietly. He took a breath, braced himself, and looked down at his left arm. It ended in a nub just above where his elbow used to be, wrapped in several layers of dull, brown self-adhesive bandage. 

When it was out of his line of sight, McCree found it hard to believe that the arm was really gone. It felt as though it were still there, still being violently crushed and accompanied by a pins-and-needles sensation in his shoulder, which progressed the length of the limb and turned into white-hot nails and droplets of molten glass in his nonexistent forearm and hand. Everything in his brain and body screamed that he was injured, he needed to react, he needed to do something to save his arm-- but it was no longer there to save.

A soft, red glow from the right side of the darkened room caught his attention. A familiar slender figure was perched on the windowsill, one leg propped up in front of his chest, the other trailing to the ground for stability.

“Aren’t you ever gonna leave?” McCree groaned in a hoarse voice.

The light glowed brighter as Genji’s nonessential systems powered on. His upper body turned slightly to face his teammate, and he silently shook his head. He had no intention of going anywhere.

“Great.”

McCree didn’t know how to feel about that. He hated that another member of his unit - someone who had to be able to trust him with their life - saw him in such a state of helplessness. Weakness was a death sentence on the streets where he’d grown up, and that was the same within Overwatch. At the same time, though, he really didn’t want to be left alone here, with nothing but the pain and the sharp smell of hospital disinfectant to occupy his mind.

He coughed-- ugh, whatever the field medics and trauma surgeons had done while he was unconscious had made him feel as though his mouth and throat were full of dust. Genji got up from his post at the window and crossed the room with silent, catlike grace in the darkness. The cyborg filled a cup with water at the sink and made his way over to the side of the bed, where he placed it firmly and carefully in McCree’s hand.

“Get out of here,” the former gangster muttered after taking a shaky sip. He did _not_ want his brother-in-arms waiting on him like he was an invalid. 

“I mean it. Overwatch has nurses who will do this shit. Go, get some rest. You’re going to need it; we’re both gonna to have to fill out incident reports in the morning.”

In response, Genji made a noise that was somewhere between a laugh and a scoff, which reverberated oddly with his slight voice modulation. “Reyes can write my incident report.”

McCree couldn’t help but let out a snort. “That’s _Commander_ Reyes to you, kid!” he said in a fake-deep voice. In a normal tone, he continued: “Ah… As far as I’m concerned, Command can take their incident reports and shove ‘em where the sun don’t shine. If they want to know what’s happenin’ on our ops, they ought to get out from behind their desks and dirty up their hands like the rest of us.”

Though Genji’s nose and mouth were covered, as always, by his metal faceplate, a smile could clearly be seen in the corners of his eyes. When he spoke, his voice conveyed mocking concern: “Without incident reports, how could they be certain that we are truly doing our jobs? They cannot leave their offices, you know-- their bottoms are rooted to the chairs.”

McCree let out a burst of laughter which turned into a coughing fit as his dry throat refused to cooperate. Whatever painkillers the medical staff had loaded him up with were certainly making this ridiculous conversation seem a lot more funny, even though he was still in considerable pain.

Come to think of it, it was strange to see Genji behaving this way. He'd always known his companion to be quiet, reserved-- waiting in the shadows for the perfect opportunity to strike, a true assassin. He could count on Genji to have his back on a mission, to do the job to a rigid degree of perfection that was clean and beautiful even for military standards. He could also count on the ninja to avoid any kind of casual social behavior outside of work.

Genji took great pride in the quality of his work, and a part of that was ensuring that the entire team made it home at the end of the mission. Beyond that personal sense of duty, though, McCree doubted that the man cared about any of them. Not that Genji was ever _un_ friendly; he was simply… focused. He had higher priorities than camaraderie with the other agents of Blackwatch. 

To have the cyborg standing at his bedside, casually joking about senior officers and paperwork, felt odd. Why was Genji being so nice to him, anyway? As far as the cyborg should be concerned, it was just an arm. Genji had suffered much worse injuries.

Whatever drugs the doctors had pumped McCree full of were making his head spin. He squeezed his eyes shut and exhaled slowly, grateful that there was nothing in his stomach for his body to attempt to regurgitate. Genji caught on quickly, and took away the cup of water before his teammate could spill it. McCree gripped the rail of his bed and focused on his breathing as he willed the rocking, spinning sensations to subside. 

A minute passed. Five minutes, an hour… Genji remained patiently at the side of the bed. McCree kept glancing at the clock, closing his eyes, glancing at the clock again-- willing the night to pass faster, or sleep to finally find him so he could have some relief from this agony, this sterile room, this moment in his life. 

Finally, as the first colors of sunrise were appearing outside his window, he was able to drift off. Moments before he faded, he was still aware of the soft mechanical clicks and whirs of the cyborg beside him.


	2. Chapter Two

When McCree awoke the next day, the nausea and vertigo had subsided into a general feeling of grogginess that wasn’t much worse than a hangover. His arm still hurt, but it was a persistent pain; more tolerable than the intense waves of white-hot agony that had been crashing over him last night. The blood pressure cuff around his right arm was tightening as it took a reading. Without thinking, he tried to reach across and remove it-- and was rewarded with another intense spike of pain radiating down the arm that no longer existed.

A harsh hiss of breath escaped his lips. He squeezed his eyes tightly shut, then opened them a few seconds later, as if that would somehow change his reality.

He glanced around the room. Genji was nowhere to be seen-- at some point while he was sleeping, it seemed, the cyborg had taken off. That, or he was silently observing from a place where McCree couldn’t see him. 

Such was Genji’s modus operandi, after all.

Instead, a nurse whom McCree did not immediately recognize now stood at his bedside. She appeared several years older than himself. The teal-blue color of her scrubs indicated that she worked strictly here on base-- not out on field missions.

“Vitals are looking good,” she said as she scribbled something down on a clipboard. “How are you feeling, Agent McCree?”

“How do you  _ think?”  _ he snapped, casting a glare in her direction. He  _ hated _ the situation he was in-- not only because he was in an uncomfortable hospital bed, missing a part of his body, but because he was safe here while his fellow Overwatch agents still risked their lives in the field. He wanted -  _ needed -  _ to get back out there with them. Reyes hadn't spared him from the hardship of prison and given him a second chance so that he could be cozy under a blanket while other people did his job!

Right away, he felt bad about the way he'd reacted. This wasn't her fault-- it was likely a routine question, poorly worded though it might be. 

“Sorry,” he mumbled sheepishly. 

The nurse gave an understanding nod. “Quite all right. Well, your vitals look good-- if you're feeling up to it, what would you think about getting out of bed and taking a short walk up and down the hallway?”

“Count me in,” the mercenary answered. He was quick to toss the covers aside and swing his legs over the edge of the bed. The pulsing ache in his arm deepened and increased in intensity at the movement, which caused him to clench his jaw. It didn't dissuade him, however; he'd rather do  _ anything _ than lay uselessly in a hospital bed.

“Ah-ah, take it easy!” 

The nurse put a hand on his right shoulder to prevent him from standing all the way up. “The pain meds can make you dizzy. We wouldn't want you to slip and fall.”

She turned away to disconnect the IV pole from the wall, and McCree promptly stood up and stretched his back. After all those hours lying on a stiff hospital mattress, it felt amazing. The nurse rolled her eyes and made a clicking noise with her tongue. “Why do all you special ops boys have to be so stubborn?”

McCree grinned in response.

The scratchy, brightly-colored socks that the hospital staff had put on his feet had a tread on the bottom which stuck to the floor and made a rubbery sound each time he took a step. Combined with the fact that he had to wheel the IV pole along as he walked, it was clear that he wasn’t going to get anywhere quickly or stealthily. 

He figured that must please the nurse, who insisted on standing annoyingly close to him as he made his way out of the room. As could be expected, the hallway that he stepped into was sterile white. Fluorescent lighting reflected off the polished floor to give the area a strange feeling of impermanence. 

“The hospital gown isn’t a good look on you.”

The mercenary turned toward the sound of his commanding officer’s voice. Reyes leaned against a wall with his arms folded over his chest. When McCree’s eyes made contact with his, he stood up straight and let his shoulders relax. “Even more ridiculous than that hat of yours.”

“‘Ey, watch it, old man,” the cowboy answered in a lighthearted tone.

The corners of Reyes’ mouth tugged upwards into a wry smile. “This ‘old man’ was going to bring you a coffee and a couple of cookies from that little bakery in town that you like, but with that attitude, you're just going to have to stick with the hospital food.”

“Oh, no, I take it back,” McCree answered quickly.

“Good,” the commander said with a nod. “I'll be back with them in an hour or two. Try not to blow anything up until then, okay?”

“I'll be keeping my eye on him,” the nurse assured Reyes as he walked away. The commander had left the young mercenary to walk the length of the sterile white corridor as she followed along behind him. 

Of all the things that McCree had expected to change as he continued through life with just one arm,  _ walking _ wasn’t on the list. After all, there was nothing wrong with his  _ legs,  _ and how often does one pay attention to their arms when they walk? To his surprise, the shorter limb and reduced weight on his left side made his gait feel lopsided and awkward-- it felt as though he were holding an object to one side, altering his center of gravity, but this was only his  _ body. _

It was the body he’d have to adjust to and live with for the rest of his life.

When he finished his walk and returned to the room he’d been assigned, Genji was waiting for him, perched on the windowsill once again. 

“Special Agent Shimada,” the nurse greeted him as she pulled back the covers on the bed. “How nice of you to visit. There’s a perfectly good armchair in the corner, you know.”

Genji ignored her. She clicked her tongue at him, then pushed her glasses further up the bridge of her nose. “All right, suit yourself!” 

McCree settled back into bed, his shoulder and what was left of his arm propped up on a pillow. The nurse stepped outside for a moment, only to return with a tray as he was just getting comfortable. 

“We're going to change that dressing,” she said. The expression on her face told the mercenary that it was going to hurt. He braced himself and nodded.

First, she unwrapped the self-adhesive bandage from around his residual limb. Here and there, the movement caused small spikes in the usual, persistent pain that he felt, but it was nothing that he couldn't handle. Beneath the bandage was a layer of roller gauze that she started to unwrap. As it came away, the sensation of pins and needles intensified, starting just below his shoulder and spreading in waves down his arm to his imaginary fingers. He closed his eyes and gritted his teeth. 

He opened them again when he felt a hand on his right shoulder, up closer to his neck, which he glanced at in surprise. The hand belonged to Genji-- was this meant to be a comforting gesture? The cyborg’s fingers squeezed the skin and muscle above his collarbone, just barely hard enough to be uncomfortable. 

McCree looked up at him in confusion for a moment. His attention was quickly snapped away, though, as the nurse had removed the last of the gauze bandage. All that was left were the sterile dressings applied directly over the incision where his arm now ended too soon. She gripped one of the dressings by its edge, and in one smooth movement, peeled it away.

At the same time, Genji pinched his other shoulder tighter, the cyborg’s grip now moving from uncomfortable to painful. McCree shouted and swore loudly as thousands of white-hot needles of pain exploded through his left arm. He clenched his fist around the bedsheets. The sensation began to subside, leaving only the comparatively miniscule discomfort of Genji pinching his shoulder. The cyborg’s grip relaxed.

Wide-eyed, McCree looked up at his teammate. Now he understood what Genji was doing-- by giving McCree’s brain another, more bearable source of pain to process, he allowed the agony of his injured arm to fade into the background quicker.

The nurse gripped the edge of the remaining dressing between her thumb and forefinger. McCree gritted his teeth and braced himself. Genji’s hold on his shoulder tightened. Once again, the burning needles exploded from his arm through the hand and fingers that were no longer there. 

Despite telling himself that he shouldn't, the mercenary found himself looking down at his left side. His residual limb ended in a thick, dark line where the healing skin had been sutured together. Despite clearly seeing that the arm was gone, something in his brain kept insisting that it was still there. He could  _ feel  _ it-- much more stiff than his right arm, and tingling painfully as though it had fallen asleep.

“Oh, man, what a mind-fuck,” he groaned. “How long before I can get out of here and sit down with a nice cigar and a shot of whiskey?”

The nurse clicked her tongue at him. “Smoking constricts the blood vessels, and makes it harder for your body to heal. Not to mention your poor lungs,” she scolded.

McCree rolled his eyes. 

The process of re-dressing and bandaging the arm, while still full of unpleasant white-hot pinpricks, wasn’t nearly as harrowing as removing the old dressings had been. Perhaps it was that McCree knew what to expect now, or that he was getting used to this pain as a part of his new reality-- perhaps it was both. 

Shortly after the nurse had collected her tray and left, there was a knock at the doorway. Reyes stepped in, carrying coffee, a box of donuts, and other goodies in brown paper bags. 

“Don’t eat the donuts. Those are for the nurses,” the commander growled in the same stern tone with which he conducted his missions. He set the coffee and the paper bags down on McCree’s bedside table. 

“Here, I’ve got apple fritters, muffins, I’ve got those weird-ass cookies you like, and I brought some entertainment to occupy your time-- Shimada!”

Reyes suddenly barked the agent’s name, and at the same time, positioned himself to block Genji from moving towards the window. 

“Yeah, no, you’re not climbing the building to get out of this,” he growled as he thrust a folder at Genji, then set another on McCree’s lap. 

“Incident reports. I expect them to be filled out by midnight.” 


	3. Chapter Three

“Finally, some  _ real _ food!”

McCree’s eyes lit up and the corners of his mouth pulled into a wide grin as Genji walked through the doorway, carrying take-out boxes. How long had it been-- a  _ week _ since he'd had anything to eat that didn't taste like cardboard? 

No, it had only been three days. He frowned. It felt like a lot longer.

Genji set the containers down on the tray table beside McCree’s bed. The mercenary grabbed one and pulled it toward him. He popped the lid open to reveal a juicy, grilled steak. 

“Ah, this right here is perfection,” McCree said as he inhaled the aromatic steam coming off the cut of meat. 

He shifted some items around on the tray table to gain easier access to the silverware, and wasted no time in going at the steak with a serrated knife. The plastic take-out container slid along the tray table, rendering his effort useless. With a slight grunt of effort, he propped his residual limb up on the table and pushed the container up against it. That successfully stopped the container from sliding on the table; unfortunately, the steak slid on the bottom of the container instead.

Under his breath, he let out a frustrated sigh. How pathetic was this-- a feared gangster and respected Overwatch mercenary struggling to cut a steak?

“Try it this way,” said Genji. He held his hand out for the knife, and McCree silently passed it to him. 

With his left hand held behind his back, Genji pointed the knife straight down in his right hand and pushed the tip into the steak. When he felt the tip touch the hard plastic container underneath, he tilted it down, pressing the serrated side into the meat. In a single, smooth motion, as he applied pressure, he pulled the knife slightly toward him, cutting neatly through the steak. He had eliminated the sawing motion that caused the steak - or the container - to slide. 

Having demonstrated the technique, the cyborg offered the knife to McCree.

He took it, held it vertically, and pushed the tip into the meat as he'd seen Genji do. He tilted the blade and pressed the serrated side into the steak. Not having timed the pulling and pressing motions together as well as Genji had, his results weren't as clean-- after cutting about halfway through the thickness of the steak, he found himself tilting the blade from side to side, ungracefully ripping the meat apart rather than cutting it. 

When he had successfully cut off a chunk of meat that was too large to eat in one bite, he picked it up with his hand and used his teeth to tear a chunk off.

“Don't judge me,” he grumbled with his mouth full. “I'm hungry.”

Genji bowed his head. “You will learn easier when you are not hungry,” he said. “You do not need to fear judgment from me.”

Though McCree said nothing, he felt immense appreciation for his teammate’s understanding. 

“We will perform this task a simpler way, for now,” said Genji.

He reached into the paper bag that housed the utensils and brought out a pizza cutter. McCree gave him a confused look, but the assassin paid no attention to him. Instead, Genji used the rotating implement in his right hand to cut into the steak, easily applying simultaneous downward pressure and a smooth back-and-forth motion with his left hand tucked behind his back. He sliced a thin strip of meat free, then carefully set the instrument down beside the take-out container.

McCree had to admit, as he picked it up, that this was a rather ingenious use of a pizza cutter.

“Keep the handle pointed straight up,” Genji advised. “If you press at an angle, it will slide.”

McCree nodded, and adjusted his grip on the pizza cutter so that the handle was perpendicular to the table. When he pressed down and began moving the implement back and forth, he found it much harder to keep it moving straight when cutting through meat than through pizza. The blade caught on gristle and abruptly changed the level of resistance; he didn’t compensate in time and the container slid on the table. He readjusted its position and kept going.

When the mercenary was finished, he had sliced the meat into several large, uneven chunks, his cuts not nearly as smooth or graceful as Genji’s despite having taken considerably more time. He wasn’t too concerned about that at the moment-- the steak was now in manageable pieces that he could stuff his face with, and that was all he cared about.

Genji gave an approving nod. “You did well.”

“Ah, you're just sayin’ that to be polite,” the cowboy muttered in response. “We both know I made a mess. Never was as nimble with a blade as you. Maybe that'll change when I get a shiny metal arm like yours…”

He let his words trail off, and awkwardly rubbed the back of his neck. It had occurred to McCree too late that his words might come off as hurtful-- making light of, or dismissing, what Genji had been through when he himself was merely missing half an arm. 

He realized that he wasn't sure where the line was drawn between himself and Genji; whether or not remarks like the one he'd just made were acceptable. He wasn't sure how to ask, either, and he didn't want to lose the company of his teammate during this incessantly long hospital stay.

Genji held his cybernetic right arm up in front of him, palm toward his face and fingers splayed. He rotated his forearm so that his palm faced away from him, watching the movement as though he were studying it. 

“You will be… disappointed, and frustrated, the first few weeks after you get one,” he said. The cyborg’s voice and tone were level; if he was bothered by what McCree had said, it didn’t show. 

He continued: “It takes time to learn how to use it. However long you  _ think _ it will take-- four weeks, eight… It will take longer.”

McCree nodded. “Yeah, I hear you. I’m gonna be practicing every day, though. Whatever it takes, I’m gettin’ back out there in the action with you guys as quick as I can.”

“I will count on it,” answered Genji. “But be patient.”

“And then,” said McCree, “I’m gonna match your finesse with a sword.”

The cowboy had a big, stupid grin on his face. The statement wasn’t intended to be true-- it was simply an entertaining concept. Genji tilted his head. 

“Hah… Try me.”

They both burst into laughter.


	4. Chapter Four

“Shimada, you’re gonna have to show me how to do this for myself at some point,” McCree grumbled as the nurse laced up his boots. The frustration of being assisted with such a simple task didn’t have him too down today, despite his remark-- he was finally being discharged from the infirmary. 

After nearly a week of polished white walls and strong disinfectant smell, the concept of returning to his own quarters had never felt so appealing. 

“We will work on that,” Genji answered. 

McCree didn't doubt it. The cyborg had spent long hours loyally by his side since he'd landed himself in the infirmary, and had proven to be an excellent mentor. Faced with so much uncertainty about his future - from his place within Overwatch to how he was going to lace his own boots - he was grateful for his teammate's consistency. 

The nurse straightened up to help McCree button his shirt-- one more skill to add to the ever-growing list of things he'd have to re-learn. As she fastened the buttons, she cast a disapproving look in Genji’s direction.

“Weapons are  _ not _ allowed in the infirmary,” she said sternly. “You'd know that, of course, if you ever used the front door instead of climbing in through a window!”

Having finished fastening all the buttons, she turned toward the other agent and held out her hands. “I'm going to have to ask you to give it here.”

Immediately, Genji shuffled back and into a defensive stance. “Absolutely not,” he said firmly. 

“I mean you no disrespect,” the ninja continued. “You may not understand-- my family believes that our spirit is held within our swords. I will  _ not _ ‘hand it over’ to you, or anyone else.”

The nurse folded her arms over her chest. “Then I'm afraid I must ask you to leave. I will not have weapons in here!”

Genji bowed his head. Silently, he crossed the room to the window, slid it open, and climbed out. With him gone, McCree suddenly felt more aware of the cold sterility of the hospital, and his own newfound limitations relative to the rest of his fellow human beings.

“Why’d you go and kick him out?” the mercenary grumbled. The nurse tossed up her hands in exasperation. He grabbed his jacket and walked past her, out the door and down the hallway to the elevator. As he made his way through the building, he was aware of the people he walked past. They were paying just a little too much attention to him, or sneaking glances at his residual limb. 

_ Get it together,  _ he told himself. Were they  _ really  _ staring at him, or did he simply think they were because  _ he  _ was painfully aware that he looked...  _ different?  _

When he stepped outside the building, Genji was standing by the walkway, waiting for him. 

“The lowered head - hiding your face - it does little,” said the assassin. “Your hat gives you away.”

_ Had _ he been lowering his head? McCree hadn't even noticed. He cleared his throat and straightened up, head high, shoulders back. Genji gave an approving nod. 

They made their way along the walkway to a transport. It was like a miniature train in that it consisted of three cars, each with seating for twelve people. It traveled by way of a hover track and adhered to a preset stop schedule, allowing the agents and servicemen of Overwatch to move around the base efficiently. As it was past start-of-shift and not yet time for lunch, the transport was mostly empty. McCree and Genji had the rear car to themselves, which both were grateful for.

“So-- why so social all of a sudden? You're beyond just checkin’ in on a member of your unit after they get hurt on the job, you know that? Didn't think you liked me that much.”

McCree grinned. Genji rolled his eyes.

The cyborg hadn't answered after several seconds-- a minute--  _ two _ minutes, and McCree was beginning to wonder if he'd pissed him off. They rode in awkward silence all the way to the housing arrangements, which were a series of flat, dull-colored buildings arranged in identical rows. McCree stepped off the transport, and made his way down the sidewalk. Genji followed along behind him. In contrast with the ninja’s silent footsteps, McCree felt overly aware of the  _ thuds _ that his boots made as he walked. 

When he arrived at the entrance to his complex, he placed the palm of his hand on the biometric scanner as he’d always done. In the past, his left hand would have been reaching for the door handle to pull it open the instant it unlocked-- instead, he now had to wait for the scan to complete, then reach across his body to open the door with his right hand. There was no difficulty to the action, though he found the change from how he’d always done the simple task to be… uncomfortable.

He walked through the common area, where two other Blackwatch agents who lived in the same complex were drinking coffee and going over some paperwork. McCree could have sworn he caught them staring at him as he passed by, only to realize what they were doing and quickly avert their eyes. He sighed and did his best to force the thought out of his head-- they could just as easily have been staring at Genji.

That shouldn’t make him feel better, he thought, but it did. 

He unlocked the door to his quarters and held the door for Genji to go inside. Realizing what a mess the room was, McCree groaned-- there was dirty laundry on the floor, and his clean laundry sat in a heap on his wrinkled bedspread, waiting to be folded. The garbage can beside his desk was overflowing with wrappers that had once contained sandwiches. Several Styrofoam cups, some of which still held varying amounts of week-old coffee, covered his desk.

“We're agents, not enlisted soldiers,” said the cowboy, a light tone to his voice. “Our quarters don't get inspected. Might as well take full advantage, I'd say.”

Genji silently shook his head.

After kicking the dirty laundry under the bed, McCree pushed his body armor out of the chair at his desk and sat down. He hung his hat neatly on a rack that stood between the desk and the window-- that hat and his revolver were the only two things he owned that he handled with care, and didn’t toss haphazardly into some corner of the room. Genji lowered himself into a sitting position at the edge of the bed, careful to avoid the pile of clothing on the other end. 

Beside McCree’s bed was a pair of military-issue boots that might as well have been brand-new. They’d been worn once or twice if at all, as they appeared pristine-- and few things that McCree owned were new or shiny. Indeed, the boots on his feet - the ones that he strongly preferred - were tattered and obviously well-worn. He wouldn’t replace them until they completely fell apart and he was left with no other choice; they were comfortable and familiar to him, and a new pair wouldn’t be.

Genji picked up the unused pair of boots and set them on the ground between his feet. He slid his right foot into the appropriate boot. The assassin had a slender build that contrasted with McCree’s bulkiness and tall stature-- as such, the boots appeared comically large when Genji put them on.

The cyborg paid no attention to that, though. He folded his left hand behind his back, then reached for the laces with only his right hand. He crossed the right lace over the left side of the boot, then folded the left lace under. His other foot stood on one lace as his hand pulled the other to tighten them. He formed a loop with the lace held between his thumb and forefinger, and he tucked this looped lace into the side of the boot to maintain its shape. Then he picked up the other lace, formed a loop with it as well, wrapped it around the base of the first loop, and pulled the end through. He completed the process by tucking the floppy loops and ends of the laces into the top of the boot. 

McCree raised his eyebrows. Genji had performed the task effortlessly, and not taken any more time than it would to tie the shoe with both hands. The mercenary grunted as he reached down to untie his own boots-- bending down caused an uncomfortable sensation of tightness in his residual limb. He undid the laces, then crossed one over the other and tucked the end under as he’d seen his teammate do. He stepped on one lace, gripped the other, and pulled it tight. That part was simple enough.

He fumbled the right-side lace through his fingers a few times as he formed a loop. It was awkward, he thought, to get the proper length loop with only one hand. Finally satisfied with it, he tucked the looped lace into the side of the boot as Genji had done. He wrapped the other lace around the loop. As he started to pull it through, the looped lace dislodged from the side of the boot. 

“Ah, for fuck’s sake,” he muttered under his breath as he disentangled the laces and started again on forming the first loop. He looked up, expecting Genji to be staring at him impatiently. The ninja made it look so simple-- no reason why it shouldn’t be just as easy for himself, right?

Genji’s gaze was cast downward at an empty spot on the floor, from which he could see what McCree was doing in his peripheral vision. The cyborg was still; there was no indication that he was losing his patience. McCree returned his focus to the laces.

He tucked the loop into the side of the boot again, this time paying attention to how securely it was in place. He wrapped the other lace around it, formed a loop with that lace as well, and pulled it through. The bow was loosely tied, and the loops were much longer than the loose ends, but he’d done it! He’d gotten the laces tied without the use of his left arm. He tucked the floppy laces into the top of the boot to complete the process. 

“Well done,” said Genji.

It was still strange to McCree to hear him give a compliment. The assassin rarely spoke about anything other than the missions he was assigned, and he was known for his rigorous standard of perfection. 

Genji removed the boots he’d borrowed and returned them to the end of the bed where he’d found them. Next, he retrieved a button-down shirt from the laundry pile beside him. He laid it flat on the bed and, with his left hand still folded behind his back, rolled the right sleeve up to the elbow. He kept his left hand behind his back as he found the left collar of the shirt and used his right hand to bring it up over his shoulder. He pressed his chin to his chest to hold the left collar in place, reached his right hand behind him, and slid it into the sleeve. 

The difference in stature between them meant that Genji could easily keep his left arm inside the body of the shirt. It also meant that the shirt hung awkwardly off his slender frame and ended at his lower thighs like a nightgown. McCree stifled a laugh.

Genji hooked his index finger through the second-to-top buttonhole. He placed the tip of his thumb on the far side of the matched button, and squeezed his thumb and index finger together. As he did, he rotated his hand slightly so that the button was forced through the buttonhole. 

When he’d fastened all the buttons, he returned his attention to the second-to-top. His thumb and index finger gripped the fabric above the button and pulled up, while his middle finger rested on top of the button and pressed it down. The button slid easily out of the buttonhole. He undid the rest of the buttons, removed the shirt, and folded it neatly before returning it to the pile of otherwise unfolded laundry.

McCree tried undoing and redoing the top three buttons on his own shirt. Though he wasn’t nearly as fast as Genji, he found that this task wasn’t difficult. It was certainly easier than tying his shoes had been!

“You’ve got that ninja dexterity in your fingers,” he said. “Got me beat there.”

Genji tilted his head. “You could as well if you practiced hand-to-hand combat. There is more of Overwatch’s training facility than the shooting range, if you were not aware.” 

McCree grinned. Ah, there it was-- rigid, perfectionist Genji who’d saved the team’s asses on multiple missions, an interesting contrast with this new side of him.


End file.
